by Harold Ward
“Ansel Letowski?” the watchman said, scratching his stubbly chin reflectively. “Now I’m thinking that he must be one of that gang of Rooshins or Poles, or whatever they are, that bought the old Crum place a month or two back. Going to start some sort of colony, I’ve heard it said, although I haven’t seen any sign of it so far.”
Ricks nodded.
“Where is it?” he asked.
He waited until the other had given minute directions how to get to the rambling old house on the other side of the lake. Then, with a word of thanks, he nodded to his chauffeur and they were on their way again.
The rain had almost ceased, but the sky was still moonless. They turned into the muddy lane that led through the tangle of brambles and scrubby trees, finally coming to a stop at the huge iron gate.
Ricks dismounted and gazed at the high stone fence which extended, as nearly as he could ascertain, around the whole place. Then, with a grunt to his men, he took a pair of flippers from the car and cut the chain with which the gate was locked.
The yard was overgrown with stunted trees and vines, but when they had struggled through the maze, they found themselves on the edge of a clearing along the lake in which stood a gaunt old house, rambling and vast, the windows boarded. To all appearances, it was untenanted.
Then, again, Ricks rushed in when caution should have warned him to move slowly.
Quietly, keeping within the shadows of the trees, they moved around the clearing until they were in the rear of the tumbledown old pile. Here Ricks halted them. Dropping to all fours, he moved forward cautiously, creeping from bush to bush, from shadow to shadow, until he stood within a yard of one of the tightly boarded windows. Satisfied that he could not gain entrance here, he moved a trifle farther to the right.
At the same moment the door opened and a man armed with a sawed off shot gun, stepped onto the rickety porch.
The fellow, evidently a guard, was almost within arm’s reach of the Inspector. Ricks, his every nerve tingling with the feeling of Doctor Death’s proximity, was anxious to get into the house. The guard left the door open a tiny crack. For an instant he looked around. Apparently satisfied, he was about to turn back into the house. He stopped suddenly with an exclamation, his eyes peering into the darkness.
For Ricks, shifting his feet, had stepped upon a twig.
The guard leaped forward, his gun leveled. Now Ricks’ years of experience, his amazing quickness of eye and accuracy of judgment, stood him in stead. Like a flash his gun arm rose and fell. The butt of the heavy police revolver caught the other on the temple. He stiffened, rocking backwards and forward dizzily.
Ricks jerked the shot gun from the fellow’s nerveless grasp. At the same time the revolver descended again with crushing force. With a little grunt, the man’s legs doubled beneath him and he would have crashed to the ground had not the Inspector’s arm shot out and steadied him.
It was the work of but a second for the big policeman to drag the unconscious man back into the bushes and shackle him hand and foot. Then tying a handkerchief over his mouth for a gag, he wriggled his way back to his men and, informing them what had happened, led the way back to the house.
Stealthily, his gun out and cocked, Ricks stepped into the darkened passageway. He waited until his men were all inside, then carefully closed the door lest some vagrant current of air betray their presence. His sense of intuition—the feeling that he was close to his quarry—was growing stronger each minute. The silence was acute. The atmosphere was charged with tautness, an indefinable something, a sense of expectancy. Somewhere a plank creaked; their hearts stood still.
It was Ricks who first threw off the feeling of oppression that hung over them. Whispering a command to his subordinates, he stretched forth his hand. Finding the wall, he led the way down the passageway, finally ending up in front of a door.
With a whispered word of caution to the others, Ricks pressed his ear against the panels and listened. Hearing nothing, his hand sought the knob. Finding it, he gave it a cautious turn. It responded to his touch. Opening the door he stepped inside.
The blackness here was even more stygian than it had been in the passageway. Again they listened, Ricks waiting just inside the door until they were all gathered around him. There was a musty smell about the place—a feeling of emptiness.
With a whispered word to the others to be ready, the Inspector took his flashlight from his pocket and pressed the button. The momentary glimpse they caught during the brief interval that the light was on showed the interior of a huge, empty room—a room entirely devoid of furniture, the plaster cracked, the paper hanging from the walls in shreds. On the opposite side was a second door. Ricks led the way toward it.
Then the floor dropped from beneath their feet.
JIMMY HOLM, waking from the dreamless sleep into which Death’s draught had sent him, beheld the gaunt form of the sinister old man standing over him, a small glass of amber-colored liquid in his hand.
“Drink this,” he commanded curtly. “It will relieve the paralysis in your legs and I have need of you. I take it that your word of honor still stands?”
Holm nodded. Then, taking the potion from the other’s grasp, he downed it at a gulp. Then he dropped back against the pillows, his vitals burning as if filled with fire.
“You have poisoned me, you devil!” he shrieked.
Doctor Death shook his head.
“You wrong me,” he said calmly. “The pain will pass away in an instant.”
He spoke the truth. Within a moment or two the burning sensation was succeeded by a feeling of exhilaration. Holm’s head swam dizzily. Then this, too, cleared away, leaving him his normal self again. He tested his legs, rising to his feet and taking a step or two gingerly. Finding that he could walk, he took a turn about the room.
Doctor Death, who had been watching him, chuckled.
“Soon you will begin to believe me when I say that my knowledge of drugs and medicines is as unlimited as my knowledge of the occult,” he said. “But come. You are yourself again and I have a surprise in store for you.”
He led the way through the room and down a narrow stairway into the cellar.
“Your assumption that I have recruited a number of men to assist me is correct,” he said. “Without their aid, I would be unable to assemble the vast amount of paraphernalia that I find necessary within the short space of time allotted to me. I have several of these men here now. Their orders are to kill you—shoot without mercy—should you violate your parole.
“Two men,” he went on, half to himself, “have caused me more trouble than all the rest of the world combined. Had it not been for them, I honestly believe that my life work would have been achieved and the nation ere now agreed to my demands. Those men? You can probably guess their names. One of them is yourself. The other is Inspector John Ricks. Now I have both of you in my power!”
“Ricks a prisoner!” Holm gasped.
Doctor Death nodded.
“You can see for yourself,” he said, throwing open a door.
Inspector Ricks lay bound upon a low, flat table. He was conscious, for his eyes glared up at his captor. Then, catching sight of Jimmy, his mouth tightened.
“I came to rescue you,” he said. “Now I find that you have turned traitor.”
Doctor Death halted him with a gesture.
“It has long been my ambition to see this minute,” he said. “It is needless for me to state that I hate both of you. You, Ricks, must die. As for Jimmy, I would kill him, also, but I need the help of Nina Fererra and with Holm dead, I could get no assistance from her—the lovesick fool! In killing you. I will teach Holm a lesson.”
His finger touched a button on the wall. There was a whirring sound and the table on which Ricks lay commenced to move slowly forward.
Then Holm saw something that caused him to shriek aloud.
Beside Ricks, so close that it almost touched him, was a small wheel edged with knives. The moving table was bearing him dir
ectly into it. In a moment it would be tearing into his vitals.
“Stop!” Holm commanded.
Death’s finger pressed the button again. The machinery stopped.
The aged scientist chuckled. There was an insane glitter in his eyes as Holm took a step forward, his fists doubled, his jaw outthrust.
“Your word of honor!” he said. “Remember? And remember, also, that Nina Fererra has not yet been released from bondage.”
Jimmy Holm stopped in his tracks, the sweat pouring from his face. The wheel, once started again, would tear Ricks apart in an instant. It was not six inches from him, while his body was so strapped to the table that it would sever him end for end.
What was he to do?
In spite of the sinister scientist’s diabolical powers, he believed that in his present frame of mind, he could handle the old man. A sudden blow to the point of the jaw, taking him unawares, would turn the trick and save Ricks’ life. But to do so would be to sentence Nina Fererra to a fate worse than death. For Doctor Death, thwarted, would never forgive him. Nina Fererra, her soul separated from her body, would be condemned to go on through to eternity alive and yet dead—a Zombi.
Chapter XXVII
The Diabolical Contrivance
HOLM had little time for reflection. For Doctor Death, seeming to sense his thoughts, gave a sharp command. Half a dozen men leaped into the room and sprang upon him. For a minute he struggled. They overpowered him by sheer weight of numbers. Then, holding him prisoner, they turned to Doctor Death, waiting his orders. Huge, uncouth creatures, they were, bewhiskered, bestial. Holm recognized several of them as men who had recently been under suspicion of being part of the dreaded scientist’s newly recruited army of Reds. That the recognition was mutual was demonstrated by the looks of hatred they cast at him.
“Charming little playmates, are they not?” Death said mockingly. “I need them, though. One thing about them, Jimmy, is that they will take orders. They lack the brains to think for themselves and they can do many things that my Zombi cannot do. And they hate both you and Ricks.
“It is fitting that you should have a part in the death of your friend,” he went on. “It will give you something to think about in the years to come. I am not a cruel man ordinarily, Jimmy: I do not care to witness unnecessary suffering.
“But of late I seem to have developed a new tendency. Perhaps it is my association with my charming allies here.” He made a gesture toward the grinning Communists who were holding Holm prisoner. “I seem to get a sort of sadistic pleasure out of human misery.
“That, however, has nothing to do with the case at hand. Ricks must die. And you, Jimmy, must be taught a lesson—a lesson that you will never forget. The knowledge that Doctor Death is omnipotent must be impressed upon you. How can that be done more vividly than by allowing you to assist in the killing of your closest friend?”
He leaned his head back and shrieked with laughter.
“Bring him here,” he commanded, moving across the room.
Jimmy was puzzled. As the Reds dragged him to where the insane scientist stood, he wondered for an instant what the man meant by his words. Where did he fit into the scheme? Then, as he saw the diabolical contrivance, his heart missed a beat.
Before him was a small windlass. From it ran a belt to the crank shaft overhead. And from this crank shaft ran a second belt to the mechanism which operated the knife-armed wheel. But the windlass operated in the opposite direction from the shaft.
“Watch!” Doctor Death commanded.
ONE of the grinning Reds dragged the table on which Ricks was bound a little farther from the wheel. Then he seized the handle of the windlass and commenced turning. The table moved backward and away from the gleaming blades. Death nodded. A second man pressed the switch. Instantly the table moved toward the whirling engine of destruction. By turning the windlass steadily, the table could be held stationary. The moment he stopped turning, it moved slowly toward the revolving teeth.
“It is to be a test of your endurance, Jimmy,” Death chortled, throwing off the switch. “I regret exceedingly that I have not the time to sit here and watch you. But I have other and more important work to do. The screams of John Ricks as the knives tear through his vitals would be a pleasure to me.”
For a moment Holm was unable to believe his senses. Insane though he knew the man who called himself Doctor Death to be, he was unable to reconcile his character with this cruel being who stood before him. Doctor Death, the man who believed himself the mouthpiece of the Creator, was one thing. But this fiend, thirsting for blood, was different. Cold dread clawed at his soul.
Then, as his glance stole toward Ricks, he shuddered anew.
The table was covered with dried blood, clumps of matted hair, bits of what appeared to be human flesh.
“These Reds learned the art of cruelty in their mother country,” Death said with a chuckle. “They practiced here recently with one of their fellows—a traitor to their cause. They die, who interfere with the progress of my plans. I reward, and I punish. I am all-powerful.”
“You are a damned monster,” Holm snarled.
Ricks, white-faced, shook his head.
“Don’t even try the windlass, Jimmy,” he said. “Sooner or later your strength will be exhausted and you’ll have to stop, anyway. It may as well be now as half an hour later. And a tuna can die but once.”
Death shrieked with laughter at the Inspector’s speech. But Jimmy shook his head. Then, at a word of command, his legs were shackled to the floor.
“I must go,” Death snapped. “I have spent enough time with you. Despite your actions toward me, however, I will give you a fair start. See? I move the table back to its full length. It takes just sixty seconds for it to move from where it now stands to where the saw will strike, Jimmy. Sixty seconds for you to rest when you grow weary...”
Turning, he stepped toward the door, his grinning followers close behind.
“Farewell, Ricks!” he snarled.
HIS hand stretched forth and touched the switch, throwing the machinery into motion. Slowly the table to which the Inspector was bound moved toward the whirling blades.
Jimmy Holm seized the handle of the windlass and turned. The movement of the table stopped. He worked faster and it moved backward.
Then commenced a test of endurance such as man has seldom been compelled to go through. Neither man spoke as the minutes passed slowly by. Holm found that by keeping up a steady turning, working neither too fast nor too slow, that he could hold the table stationary. In spite of this, however, the tedious, everlasting movement told on him. Within half an hour his arms ached from wrist to shoulder. Then came pains in his back. Every movement was a torture. Worse and worse grew the muscular pains. He swayed as he turned the crank.
Occasionally he was forced to stop for a moment. The table seemed to dash forward; each time he rested it was necessary for him to work the harder in order to drive it back to its original position. The sweat stood out on his body in great beads. Facing the Inspector as he was, the doomed man could see the suffering that he was going through.
“Let it go, Jimmy, old man!” Ricks called to him. “It will only be the matter of seconds. We’ve faced bullets together without flinching. This is the same thing. It means little more than a chunk of lead. Stop. Why prolong what we both know is inevitable?”
Jimmy Holm shook his head negatively. He was too exhausted to answer.
In spite of his every effort the devilish thing was gaining on him now. He was working like a man in a daze. His every muscle ached; each turn of the crank seemed to tear into his very vitals. It felt, he imagined, the way the knives would feel when they ripped through Ricks’ flesh. He gazed at the Inspector through a haze...
Suddenly the wheel’s shrill screaming took on a different tone. It brought him to his senses. He cursed himself for a laggard. Gaining ground as it had, the knives had reached the Inspector; the difference in sound was caused by the doomed man’s cloth
ing as it twisted about the blades.
Holm, summoning every ounce of strength at his command, threw his weight against the crank. The table slowly moved back again until, for the moment, the white-faced man was granted another respite.
Ricks, bound to the table, could see the condition the other was in. He realized that it was only a matter of minutes now—seconds, perhaps. Strangely, he had no fear. He had reached a state where his faculties were benumbed—where he almost welcomed death.
“Let it go, Jimmy,” he said calmly. “No use trying any more. You’ve made a good fight, my boy, and God bless you for it. It will all be over in a minute. And, lying here facing death as I’ve been, I’ve had a chance to think of a great many things. It will not be hard; a sudden twinge of pain—then oblivion.”
The voice seemed to come as from a great distance. Jimmy shook his head savagely.
“Not... licked... yet...” he heard himself gasp.
Again he put his weight to the crank and had the satisfaction of seeing the table slide back. The effort was too much for him. Once more it moved forward in spite of him. It was upon the wheel now...
The blades were again cutting through the clothing. He tried to move a bit faster. But his arms were like dead things...
From outside came the sharp report of a revolver! A women screamed as the door was flung open: The switch clicked and the machinery stopped with a low, singing whine.
“Thank God!” he heard Ricks say.
Then he slumped across the windlass.
Chapter XXVIII
Zombi to the Rescue
NINA FERERRA was bending over him. She dragged him to his feet.
“Quick!” she exclaimed. “I was forced to shoot the guard on duty just outside the door. The others probably heard the report of the gun and will be here in a minute.”
Holm leaped erect. His body ached in every joint. Every muscle twitched. Yet the unexpected coming of the girl filled him with new hope. A feeling of intoxication swept over him like a stimulant lending him added strength.